


metronome radio

by TeaParade



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AHHHHHHHHHHH, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Multi, Music Major AU, Music Majors, Music school AU, Slow Burn, They're Such Idiots, bless these assholes, klance, piano major!au, piano majors, warning for sparse updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaParade/pseuds/TeaParade
Summary: Lance is a composition major on piano. Keith is a hardcore performance major. Altea School of Music is famous for bringing out the best in its students, but sometimes the competition just has a habit of dragging out the worst.Music major funtimes and a lovely melange box of musical angst and friendship.





	1. baby grand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! So... this is something I've been sitting on for a little bit. I really wanted to get this out there just so I could feel like I'm making some progress. I have really strong feelings towards this fic and its possibilities, but that really depends on reception and all that jazz. As always, thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Also a little heads up, my schedule is uber-busy with school and practice (because surpriiiise, double major, one of which is music ;) ) So updates will be... few and far between, probably. I've got multiple pseuds and tend to rotate my writing between fics, but I swear on my life to keep track of this one. Much love!

 

* * *

 

 

Take a moment to find a quiet spot.

 

To the lucky ones blessed with perfect pitch, find the A above middle C. Hum it aloud. Get it in your head and hold onto it.

If you can't do this off the top of your head, find a piano – even an app on your phone will work just fine. Now find A.

Did you find it?

Think of the sound of an orchestra before a performance, warming up for a concert. You hear a violin. An oboe. One by one and then all at once, the instruments come to life.

The conductor walks out. His baton is poised and ready, like a sword, ready to strike down the eager audience.

Do you ever get that buzzing in your chest before a show, when your veins are getting ready to hum with the music and your breathing quickens, just for a moment? The excitement of something you've never seen before, about to come to life in front of you. Your awareness has suddenly doubled. Tripled. You hear someone give a light cough from behind. Some people shuffle their programs. Others sit deathly still, intent on not missing a thing, not even a second. Your palms sweat, but it's good. It’s _exciting_. The orchestra is playing other notes now, and a few of them break off to play snippets of the performance, warmups and scales and all that jazz. Your ears pick out scales from a flute. They snag a motif from a grumpy bassoon. A stray note from a trumpet jars you and your eyes fly open, back to reality for a second before the lull of the other instruments pulls you back in.

The audience is awake. The audience is ready. The musicians have _been_ ready, and they’re raring to show you what they can do.

The sound of an orchestra before a performance should always begin with A.

Think about it. Listen to it.

Hear it?

The show is about to begin.

* * *

 

 

**Last week of August**

The walk from the bus stop to the music building in the mornings smelled like breakfast food from the food trucks and coffee, and cigarette smoke, gasoline, and perhaps, if you focused carefully, the faintest traces of weed.

Lance loved his campus.

This semester was going to be a good one, he could feel it. Sophomore year was going to be a _good_ year. Hell, freshman year had been pretty damn good, and he’d even made Dean’s list – how the heck had that happened? Maybe Lance was just shortchanging himself. He was smart, he _knew_ he was, but he was also… distracted. A lot.

Lance hopped back onto the curb just in time to watch one of the school shuttles roll by, right where he’d been standing a second ago.

_Okay, so this semester is gonna be a good one, starting… now._

Maybe getting hit by a bus on the first day wouldn’t have been the _best_ start to his third semester of college. Adjusting his blue backpack on his shoulders, Lance marched along with the rest of the procession, easily spotting a few freshmen in the mix.

You can always pick out the freshmen. They’re the ones who still have light in their eyes and a pep to their step.

Yeah, college was probably going to stomp that out in no time.

He smirked, happy to no longer be one of the little freshies without a clue what was coming for them. Then he realized in shock that _damn_ , that _had_ been him only last semester, just a few months ago. Time really flew.

But like, there was _definitely_ a difference between first semester freshmen and second semester freshmen, Lance thought. These freshmen looked plain lost, following the crowd and hoping that they just sort of ended up where they were supposed to be.

Yeah, they’d be just fine.

“Hey, _Struts_ T-shirt!” someone yelled. Lance knew that voice.

Grinning, he turned around in the middle of the sidewalk, earning himself a few dirty looks, and spotted a familiar face positively drowning amidst the sea of sweatshirts.

“Piiidge!” Lance called back in a voice louder than was really necessary in a crowd of people, while he waved to the small figure hovering among the masses by the gyro truck, backpack slung over one shoulder and laptop bag slung over the other. Pidge Gunderson was probably carrying her weight and more.

 _God fuckin’ bless_. Lance had missed the tuba-playing salt monster all summer.

He gave a thumbs up in her direction, signaling that he was coming her way.

Pidge didn’t move. Lance assumed she’d gotten the message.

It took a little effort, but Lance managed to weave his way through the flow of students. Most people seemed too intent on getting to class to elbow him out of the way, but someone did step on one of his converse, and he threw the nearest person a _look._ They brushed past him without a word.

He reached the gyro truck eventually. Pidge was grinning her signature “I’ve had my morning espresso shots, all is well in the world” smile. Unsurprisingly, she was gripping another massive coffee cup in one hand. The thing was so wide around the middle that her hand only fit around half of it.

Lance had once asked her if she thought her coffee consumption was healthy. Pidge had told him to fuck off.

Pidge Gunderson was a sophomore, but she was also two years younger than Lance and most of his friends because she’d started kindergarten early, and also skipped the sixth grade because she was annoyingly brilliant.

“You mind being my human shield?” Pidge asked, glaring at the clusters of students passing them on the sidewalk. The line for the gyro truck was nonexistent at this hour, but most of the others served breakfast foods and man, the lines for those trucks nearly reached the steps of the science center.

Lance laughed, adjusting his backpack again. “Ab-so-lutely, you got a music class first?”

“Theory,” pidge said, and she didn’t sound completely murderous about it the way most people should. But hey, why should she?

Pidge might’ve been a computer science major, but she was minoring in music theory for a reason. She loved music, and she freaking loved math. And if you think about it, music theory is really just the music version of math. If that kind of math was set in a different language.

And you threw in roman numerals just to fuck with people.

Lance himself was all right at theory, and that was mostly because he needed it, being a composition major and all. But did he enjoy it? _Hell_ to the no.

Yeah, Lance sometimes wondered if the little tuba gremlin just hated herself.

Pidge sipped at her coffee, raising an eyebrow as if to say, _so?_

Lance got the hint and turned around, giving his back to Pidge, who reached out the hand that wasn’t gripping her coffee and snagged one of the loose straps meant to tie around your middle. Lance never used those.

With Lance leading and Pidge clinging, the two of them charged into the thick of morning foot-traffic, determined to make it to the music building by nine a.m.

They made small talk on the way, mostly about how they expected first semester to play out, with Pidge mostly talking shit about anyone who she didn’t know personally. Every few seconds, she would bring her coffee to her lips and _sluurp_ obnoxiously, just because she knew it ticked Lance off.

Pidge Gunderson had some kidney problems, and she was addicted to caffeine. And if that isn't the most perfect cocktail for a disaster waiting to happen. Her excuse was always, "Yeah, I think I drink like six cups of coffee every day but it's ok because I drink like, the same amount of water to balance it out."

To which Lance always responded, “Yeah, but you also have to pee like a fucking racehorse every half hour.”

“You right, you right.”

She played tuba and trumpet, but liked the tuba more. Long story short, she’d quit marching band after one year because she never slept and she hated the people. Well, she _still_ didn’t sleep, and she still hated most people, but at least she had more time to screw around, now. "I hear there's a mellow-hole this year and I bet my ass they'll drag in Kelsey Roe, because she's actually perfect."

Lance hummed and pretended to agree, although truthfully he had no idea who Kelsey Roe was. Must not be a music major, because Lance was pretty sure he knew close to every single music major as of this semester.

Okay, maybe not the freshman, but he was nothing if not a fast learner.

Lance himself was a piano major. He could play jazz all right, which was what a lot of composition majors were really good at, but Lance, for some inexplicable reason that had most people stunned when he told them, was actually super partial to classical.

That meant the all-encompassing classical, including capital ‘C’ Classical, tons of Romantic stuff, even Baroque was ok if it was done right. Like, Lance could dig a little Vivaldi when he was in the right mood.

Oh, and he could plunk out Debussy on the piano like a boss.

Lance had aurals first thing in the morning, which was why he was in such a rush to get to the music building early. Because if he didn’t get at _least_ ten minutes to warm up in a practice room, he was basically screwed.

Lance loved to sing – but Lance hated singing drills on atonality and urghhh, _chromaticism_ . He just hated aurals in general. No, okay, that was a lie, he liked aurals, but only until second semester, when he’d gotten professor _Haxus_ as a professor.

Haxus’s aurals class had beat the shit out of Lance, and he was no more ashamed to admit it than the rest of his classmates, who also believed that Dr. Haxus was just as brilliant as he was cruel.

Lance would never again be able to sing a D major arpeggio without having war flashbacks.

Here’s the thing: he’d always been great at aurals – doing well in the class had never really been an issue for him – but that was only because he stressed over the homework and practiced when he could because he didn’t doubt for a second that the professor would call on him first. They always called on Lance first.

Lance usually liked the spotlight.

Lance _detested_ the spotlight if it meant squeaking by on a drill in front of the rest of his classmates. They weren’t just a bunch of random faces that were rarely seen outside of the classroom; this was the music school.

And in music school, everyone pretty much knows everyone.

The music building was alive with students, most of whom were well-dressed and looking mighty ready for a performance. Who were they trying to fool? Lance wondered. It was the first day. There wouldn’t be any recitals for at least a month yet.

A trumpet played an out-of-tune B flat somewhere in a practice room, although most first floor rooms were reserved for percussion. Maybe they were on the second floor, just playing super loud. Lance wouldn’t be surprised.

He felt like he’d come home.

His summer had been nothing but _long_ , consisting of nothing but work and doing nothing else besides watching Netflix. The only upside was sleeping in. This was the calm before the storm. All of the students went about their morning with excited smiles on their faces as they reunited with their friends, after a looong three months of summer vacation. The tears and stressing over juries would come later.

For now, it was time to chill out.

Syllabus week was basically just an extra week of break, but you did still have to show up for class, technically. If you missed one class in the music building, you might as well just skip them all. This week, though, Lance planned on partying it up and—

“Lance, holy shit!”

Lance nearly ran headlong into someone who was even taller than he was.

Hunk Hale was a great big wall of hugs once Lance realized that the person who’d just yelled his name was his best friend, the same guy he’d gone to school with since, like, the fifth grade.

“Lance, buddy!” Lance could feel the life being squeezed out of him by the most powerful force of pure sunshine on earth.

Pidge was somehow roped into the bone-crunching hug too, but she managed to worm out of it before Lance was freed.

“It is _good_ to see you, my man,” Hunk said with a grin, slapping his friend on the back.

“Dude, I only just saw you a few weeks ago,” Lance said.

“Yeah, but that was _weeks_ ago,” Hunk pretended to whine, laughing when Lance rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Lance said.

“You have a class now?”

“Aurals, yeah.”

“Ahh, gross.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Yeah,” Pidge cut in, sticking her hand with the coffee in between the two boys , who were currently cutting off her path to the other end of the hall. “Can we catch up later, nerds? I really can’t be late for theory.” Her face was only half apologetic. She probably would have shrugged if her shoulders hadn’t been weighed down by the bags of books. And music. And tech.

“Also gross,” Hunk said with a snort. He stepped aside to let Pidge pass, holding his arms out like he was sending off a queen, instead of a cranky music kid gripping a large Americano with extra sugar.

Pidge didn’t complain, breezing past with her coffee and her two bags. She gave a little wave with her free hand, calling back, “I promise I’ll find you guys later! We can talk then, okay?”

“Meet you in the library?” Lance called after her.

“You know it!”

The music library had become the little trio’s meetup, ever since first semester of freshman year. They’d even laid claim over their very own “spot,” the farthest back corner by the windows, behind all of the shelves stacked with sheet music. There were couches back there – and they were actually _comfy._

“So, how was the rest of your summer?” Hunk asked, keeping stride with Lance as they headed for the third floor.

Lance shrugged. “Eh, it was all right. Mostly just worked at the restaurant and made some cash. Went to another concert, too.”

“So I saw,” Hunk said, grinning and nodding at Lance’s t-shirt. “New shirt?”

“Yep!” Lance spread his arms wide for Hunk to get a better view. The t-shirt was pretty understated, just a white baseball tee with black sleeves and a black logo, one in letters that stretched themselves vertically over Lance’s chest: _The Struts._ They were kind of Lance’s new favorite band.

“You really love those guys, don’t ya?” Hunk commented, “I saw your snaps. You were pretty close to the stage!”

Lance’s nod was especially vigorous. He pushed open the door to the stairwell and led the way up, taking the steps two at a time. Hunk grumbled something about hating stairs more than he hated aurals, and took them one by one. Like a _normal_ person.

“Their music gives me _life_ ,” Lance said as they continued their ascent. The main stairwell of the music building was pretty steep and normally not too crowded. Lots of people opted for the elevator if they had classes on the third floor. “Hunk, I firmly believe that their lead singer could double for a twenty-first century Freddie Mercury, he sounded _just like_ the guy…. Hunk?”

He heard a huff. Lance assumed his obsession with the Struts was the last thing Hunk wanted to hear about. But… c’mon. Their music was pretty great.

“I showed you their stuff over the summer! Are you saying you _don’t_ like their music? Dude.”

Lance heard Hunk protest from a few steps behind, still huffing. The sound of a bag unzipping caught Lance’s ears before he heard a little wheeze, and then a puff.

Ah, right. Asthma. Lance almost forgot about that.

His feet slowed on the stairs, and he looked over his shoulder to see Hunk take a deep breath before putting away his inhaler. Lance grimaced and stopped altogether. “Sorry man. Didn’t mean to go so fast.”

“’S all good,” Hunk said, brushing it off with a smile. “Not a big deal. You’ve got long legs and wayyy too much energy.”

“Yeah…”

They both reached their classes with ten minutes to spare.

Before Lance headed to the nearest practice room, he gave Hunk a _look_ , reminding him that yeah, they were still meeting up in the library afterwards.

It had been a long summer, and Lance was going to catch up with his friends, goddammit.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Penelope Arus wasn’t too bad for an aurals professor, but she did seem to go a little fast.

It was only day one and so far they’d skipped the syllabus in order to get right to drills, sight-reading, and dictations. While dictations were actually his strong point, Lance wasn’t really sure about this whole ‘knowing which chord is in which inversion’ thing. It sounded tough. And also, uh, fucking impossible.

But if Lance knew anything about the way he learned, it was that if he could endure a whole semester of Haxus, he could endure anything.

“So what’s your rep for this semester?”

Lance scanned the e-mail from his instructor, feet comfortably propped up on one of the cheap footrests in the library.

He and Hunk had gotten out of class early (syllabus week, surprise surprise) and were waiting around for Pidge to show up. After a cursory glance at the e-mail, Lance grinned.

His piano instructor was a chipper man from New Zealand, with a Masters from the Royal College of Music and a doctorate from Curtis. How he’d ended up at Altea School of Music, Lance had no idea. The music school was damn happy to have him, though.

Lance’s piano instructor was Dr. Coran A. Juniper – or just Coran, which was what he went by for… most of his students, actually. All of the faculty, too.

Most instructors would be appalled to be addressed by their first name, by a _student_.

Not Coran.

“Looks like good ol’ doc C. is gonna let me do Gershwin this year,” Lance announced, reading happily through the rest of his assigned pieces for the upcoming semester. There was Gershwin, and then a Rachmaninov Etude-Tableaux, which he wasn’t sure about but assumed it would go okay, a Brahms intermezzo, and… aww, damn it.

“Shitballs,” Lance muttered, frowning at the laptop monitor, “he’s having me do a Bach suite. G major.”

“Sucks man,” Hunk said, although he was chuckling. He sat squished in his own comfy chair right in the corner, next to the sofa that Lance was currently taking up with his entire, lanky body. Lance scowled. “But you didn’t have to do any Bach for either semester last year. It was bound to happen sooner or later, right?”

“But I _haaate_ Bach,” Lance whined.

“Most people do.”

Lance really _did_ , though. He hated how technical it was, how mechanical and strict. He didn’t _wanna_. End of story.

His hands were built for the Romantic Era, not Bach. Bach was hard, but that wasn’t necessarily the problem.

Lance could deal with difficult pieces, seriously, as long as he liked them, and he normally _did_ like the pieces that Coran assigned him. But…

But if Lance wasn’t into it then, well, there wasn’t really a shot in hell that he was ever going to practice, let alone practice _well._

When it came to music, it was all in or all out for him.

“You wanna hang in 300Z after lunch?” Lance muttered, scrolling idly over the e-mail again with a pout. Hunk grunted in confirmation as he opened up his own laptop.

Ever since the latter months of freshman year, Lance had come to favor one of the practice rooms reserved specially for piano majors. Only those students could get into those rooms with their IDs. Lance’s favorite practice room was right at the end of the hallway on the third floor, with a small-ish window that was situated so that it was difficult to see inside to the baby grand. Lance wasn’t really a fan of people watching him practice.

There were only maybe nine or ten practice rooms in the whole school with baby grands in them, and out of those, Lance absolutely loved the one in 300Z, with its out-of-tune D flat just above middle C, and the way the _una corda_ muffled notes a little more than necessary. The thing had a soul, as well as a place in Lance’s heart.

So much so, in fact, that he’d started calling the piano “Bae.” Not an unusual thing, for a musician to name their instrument. But a piano… that was a little unorthodox, even for the weirdos that are music majors.

“How goes it, fellow nerds?” Pidge’s voice popped up from somewhere behind one of the bookshelves dedicated to Jazz fake books.

“You made it!” Lance said, pulling his focus away from Coran’s e-mail.

“Duh.” Pidge was holding one less bag than before, and she looked much more comfortable with her backpack slung over both shoulders instead of just the one. Her tuba was missing, too. She’d probably stashed it in her locker.

That was one of the perks of being part of a music school – they provided lockers.

The best part? If you had a big instrument, you got a big locker. Big enough for a tuba. Or a person.

During finals week last semester, Lance had actually crawled into Pidge’s locker (with her permission, of course) and just studied in there with a reading light, a pillow, and his textbooks. He’d even been ready to stay the night in that locker, but _that_ was where Pidge had drawn the line.

“So are we going to get Edison’s for lunch?” Pidge asked, checking the time on her phone. It was almost noon. Lance and Hunk had been hanging out in the library for almost two hours now. Neither one had another class until 2:00.

“Hell yeah!” Hunk nodded enthusiastically. “Eddie’s is _life._ I could go for a bagel.”

“I could go for ten,” Lance said.

“Same.”

“I just like their coffee,” said Pidge. She flashed them a crooked grin and shrugged.

Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

“There’s nothing wrong with liking coffee, Lance.”

Lance scoffed. “Yeah, because two coffees within three hours of each other totally isn’t a problem.”

“It’s _not,_ asshole.”

“Shhh…” Lance held a sly finger up to his lips, giving Pidge a shit-eating grin as his eyes flicked to the librarian and back. “We’re in a library.”

“And you’re a saint for reminding me.” Pidge grinned a grin that was much too sweet for a coffee drinking devil child, before walking closer to Lance until she could lean over to whisper in his ear, “And I think I’m gonna buy myself an extra hot coffee when we get to Eddie’s, just so I can pour it down the front of your _Star Trek_ tighty-whities.”

Lance flinched away in horror.

Pidge was ugly snorting by the time Lance finally hissed back, “How the _fuck_ did you know I wore _Star Trek_ underwear?!”

“Lucky guess,” Pidge said. Her voice was nearing the danger zone of acceptable library volume. Her laughter (not to mention Hunk’s) died down eventually, but not before they got a dirty look from the librarian on duty. “So, you guys wanna go now or do you want to wait a little bit--?”

Lance and Hunk were both on their feet before Pidge could finish her sentence.

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge waved goodbye after lunch, claiming she _had_ to get to the science building early to get herself "one of the good computers, or else I’m gonna have to sit in the back and look at people.” She shuddered just thinking about it.

Lance shrugged. Hunk waved cheerily as the little coffee monster made her way up the block towards the science center.

When they made it back to the music building, Lance’s first stop was the library.

Hunk told him he’d meet him on the third floor, so Lance was alone, with no one to back him up when some dipshit snagged the last book of Brahms piano solos off the shelf, the one he’d been browsing at that moment.

It had practically been right in _front_ of him!

Lance turned on his heel to get a good look at the person who’d just pulled _that_ one. They seemed totally unaware that they’d done anything wrong at all as they walked away, book in hand.

“Hey!” Lance hissed, remembering to keep his voice down for the sake of not getting his ass kicked by the librarian.

The person in question turned around.

The guy might have been Lance’s age, but then again it was kind of hard to tell when _every_ one in college kind of looked your age. Lance thought maybe he recognized this guy from one of his theory classes last semester. The light between the bookshelves was shit, so the face was difficult to make out at first.

“Yeah?” the guy said, taking a step back towards Lance. A little bit of the library’s fluorescent lighting leaked in through one of the shelves, hitting the student’s face to give Lance a much better view.

_Oh my god. Oh. My God._

Yeah, Lance recognized him. Absolutely.

Keith Kogane, piano prodigy and mullet-wearing emo extraordinaire.

 _Okay,_ Lance thought, _so he’s not_ that _emo, but he probably listens to MCR._ Keith had been Lance’s self-proclaimed rival, ever since a practice recital last year. Lance had played a Mozart Sonata and, um, he hadn’t done so hot.

Keith had played motherfucking Ravel.

Flawlessly.

Long story short, Lance hated his guts. Ever since that day - also known as the day Lance fucked up on one of the easiest sonatas known to man, in front of a group of elderly people visiting from a senior home - Lance had made it his mission in life to kick Kogane’s ass in anything and everything pertaining to music. Piano, specifically.

And now the guy was standing right in front of him, holding _his_ Brahms book. But he wasn’t gonna say that.

Still, he’d said “hey,” pretty aggressively, so he might as well follow through.

“Are you using that?” Lance asked, jabbing his index finger at the book in Keith’s hand.

The guy’s brow scrunched in confusion. He frowned, looking down at the book and then back at Lance.

“Uhh… yeah?” he said.

“When will you be done with it?” Lance didn’t mean to sound so mean, but hey, he just wanted the Brahms. He didn’t feel like checking IMSLP. Which was a little lazy, but Lance had other stuff to do.

Keith shrugged. “I’m… not sure? Probably a week or so, I’m just learning one of the shorter pieces.”

Lance gawked. “Umm, you mean you’re planning to learn a piece in a week?”

Keith shrugged again, which did nothing but piss Lance off. _This guy._ “I dunno, it might take me longer. What’s the big deal?” Apparently he’d caught the look on Lance’s face. “These pieces aren’t more than four or five pages apiece. It’s not like they’re hard.”

Oh, that was rich, coming from the guy who was basically a superstar by music school standards, even if he himself didn’t say it aloud. Keith Kogane was legendary. It set Lance’s veins on fire, and not necessarily in a good way.

“Do I know you, by any chance?” Keith asked, getting a better look at Lance as he took a step closer. He was wearing plain, faded black jeans with a rip in one of the knees, converse, and a plain black t-shirt. Nothing necessarily stuck out about him, other than the funky haircut which, Lance didn’t like to admit, looked all right on him. Who looks good in a mullet, anyway?

Lance snapped out of his daze quickly enough to slap on a cooler, less furious expression, crossing his arms. “Uh, yeah? The name’s Lance.”

He got no reaction. Lance did his best to keep his shoulders from slumping. _Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?_

“Lance McClain? We were in the same theory class last semester?” Lance tried again.

Keith frowned. Then something clicked, and his eyes widened. “Oh right…” he said, giving Lance a less cursory once-over. “You’re the guy who likes to answer in class without raising his hand. I’m pretty sure you made Dr. Haxus hate our entire class, dude.” His voice never broke the semi-monotone that made him sound like he didn’t give a shit. Seriously, did he even hear himself?

Now he was just being plain _rude_.

Lance gave him a shocked look in reply. “Ex-kuh- _use_ me, but Haxus is a terror and hates _everyone._ Plus, no one can ever follow what he’s saying. Everyone knows that!”

Keith fucking Kogane actually scoffed at him, crossing his arms with the book still tight in his hand. “Speak for yourself,” he said coolly. Lance wondered if his voice sounded as calm. Then again, this guy was the king of being indifferent towards pretty much anything, save practicing for five hours every day.

“Y’know what?” Lance snapped before he could completely lose it. “I’ve got places to be.” And he did, but he also really wanted the Brahms. One week. He could wait one week. He just didn’t want this dickwad with a mullet to have that satisfaction. “However…”

His eyes fell to the book.

Keith saw where he was looking and quickly held it to his chest with both hands. “Nope,” he said, giving Lance an expression that wouldn’t even pass a 2 on a scale of 1-10 for apologetic. “I saw it first. Didn’t you get other pieces to look at anyway?”

A good point. Lance, being Lance, would die before he admitted it.

What he _did_ say was, “Fine, whatever. Play your stupid Brahms. But just so you know, I’m taking you _down_ this semester. You brought this rivalry on yourself, Kogane.”

The look of confusion on Keith’s face brought some small satisfaction to Lance.

“Since _when_ are we rivals?” Keith sputtered. Someone _shushed_ him. He lowered his voice. “It’s just one book!” he said, in a voice that didn’t exceed indoor whispering but also contained the same amount of salt as the Dead Sea. “You’re being ridiculous, we have nothing to compete over. It’s just a dumb book, dude.”

Lance was dumbfounded. Did this guy really not remember? “What the hell?” he said, waving his hands around and almost knocking down a loose book of Clementi sonatinas. “I’m a piano major too, y’know!”

Keith looked genuinely surprised. Lance wasn’t sure if that made him happy or disappointed. “You are?” Keith asked.

“Yes!” He didn’t mention the mock recital from last year. No need to bring back bad memories. But if he wanted this total douche to take him seriously, Lance needed to seem impressive. “I study with Coran.”

“Dr. Juniper?” Ohh, so Keith was that kind of student. Teacher’s pet, huh? It _had_ come across like that in second semester music theory, but Lance just thought that Keith had been brown-nosing.

“Yeah.”

“I’m studying with him this semester, too.”

That took Lance by surprise, even more so than not being remembered as a goddamn piano major by Keith Kogane. “You are? How come I didn’t see you in studio last year then?” This had to be a joke.

“That’s because I got switched. Primakov’s been overloaded on students this semester and he said a change of pace might be good for me.”

 _Noooo, he can’t be serious?!_ Lance thought in a panic, already mourning his own death in his head. _Then that means.._

“Guess we’ll be in the same studio then,” Keith said, although he looked about as excited as Lance felt.

For a moment, they just stood there in uncomfortable silence.

Then Keith looked down at the piano book he was still holding, then looked back at Lance with a smirk. “Don’t worry. You’ll have the book by the end of next week. I’m sure you’ll figure something out until then.”

Then he left before Lance could so much as protest.

 _Asshole._ Lance thought to himself. _Talented as fuck, but still an asshole._

 

* * *

 

 

He met Hunk by the elevator, and didn’t mention his little run-in in the library. He didn’t really feel like talking about it, to be honest. His pride had been a teeny tiny bit wounded, and he was not in the mood to have Hunk laugh at him for freaking out over something as stupid as a book.

One that he _needed,_ but still. He’d get it eventually.

"BAEEEE!" Lance barged into the practice room with his arms spread wide, beelining for the baby grand sitting in the corner. The Steinway was pretty as ever, with her lid raised and keys ready. He'd already forgotten (well, mostly forgotten) about Keith.

Lance reached out a finger and pressed down on D flat. It was in tune. He _huh’d,_ wondering if Jimmy the piano tuner had finally gotten around to fixing it.

Then he stuck out a foot to press on the _una corda,_ and sure enough, the next time he hit D flat, it rang a little too much with some wonky-ass overtone. He cringed. Nope, still not fixed.

Hunk was right behind him. He dropped his own bookbag on the floor and grabbed the extra seat in the room. “Still out of tune?” he asked.

Lance hummed. “Just the D flat, but yeah. Not a problem, though.”

“Do none of your pieces have a single D flat in them?”

Lance frowned. Honestly, he didn’t know. But he was pretty sure there would be at _least_ one. And if he had a piece in E flat, then.... shit, yeah, he was totally gonna need that one key. Internally cringing, he shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“And if all else fails, you can just go to another practice room,” Hunk suggested offhandedly. Lance whirled around, looking wounded, a hand flying over his heart.

“And _cheat_ on _Bae?”_ he gasped.

Hunk was quick to hold up his hands. “I didn’t say that. Who said that? Not me.”

He looked politely guilty, but not even Lance, who had known Hunk for longer than he could remember, was even a little convinced. His eyes narrowed dramatically. “I didn’t think so,” he said.

With that, he dropped his bookbag onto the piano bench and unzipped it. He talked to himself, trying to decide which piece to look at first. He’d scanned and printed two out of four pieces from the music library, just so that he had something to look at, and now he laid the crappy quality sheet music out on the music rack, hovering a finger back and forth over each as he played a silent game of _eenie meenie miny mo._

Eventually, he decided on the Rachmaninov.

Hunk pointed out that Lance was only doing it to avoid the Bach. Lance couldn’t even deny it.

With a shrug, he sat down at the bench, flipped over the first page of the Etude-Tableaux, and cracked his knuckles.

“I wanna start out this semester in a good mood, Hunk. We’re gonna _Rach_ and roll this semester.” He waggled his eyebrows along with his fingers.

Hunk groaned. Lance grinned.

As usual, Lance tried to play with both hands together, first thing, as he sight-read the first few measures.

Hunk wasn’t a piano major (Clarinet. Although he could play “Heart and Soul” and “Chopsticks” on piano like everyone else), so he didn’t really know much about the technique that turned a good pianist into a _great_ pianist.

Ergo, he didn’t know that Lance should _really_ be practicing with hands separate before he tried to put them together.

Lance, who _was_ a pianist and who’d been playing for almost ten years now, knew this. But he also had a habit of ignoring rules in favor of learning as much music as possible in the least amount of time. It was kind of a weakness of his.

But seriously, he just… he wanted to _hear_ how it sounded, and Lance really hated being stuck playing stupid melodies on one hand for a solid hour. It was boring. Lance didn’t _do_ boring.

Should he learn how to practice properly? Yeah, maybe. But did he have an instructor for that? Yeah, and Coran was super chill in his lessons, most of the time.Sure, he could be a little tough on Lance sometimes, but that was only because he knew the kid had potential.

Lance appreciated Coran.

Lance did _not_ appreciate having to play Bach.

Good thing he had another three days until his first lesson of the semester.

 

**September**

Moving in had been mercifully easier than freshman year, when Lance had been living in a regular dorm that was situated on the third floor. It meant a shit ton of trips up and down in the elevators, having to pass countless people he didn’t know and didn’t feel like getting to know just yet, although he was nothing if not a social butterfly in the right setting - meaning, when he wasn’t carrying a big box of desk supplies his mom had bought him just for college.

Lance was living in a campus apartment this year. It was about a mile away from the music building, but the school had shuttles for that.

Fingers crossed the schedule wasn’t complete and utter bullshit.

Lance was many things, but he was not tardy if he could help it. Being late for things scared the shit out of him.

Which was why he had at least eight alarms set for himself, which went off throughout the day (obnoxious, but effective). If he didn’t have them set, he’d probably miss a class because of some dumb memory flop. His mom always joked that if he didn’t set an alarm, he’d be late to his own funeral.

Lance had never missed a class willingly _,_ not even if he hated it. Missing something important made him more anxious than going to the class itself.

As it turned out, the shuttle system _was_ complete and utter bullshit.

Lance figured out within the first week of classes that the shuttles didn’t actually start running until 7 a.m., and by the time they reached the south side of campus, it was already 7:20. God help him if he had any 8 a.m.’s _next_ semester.

The apartment that Lance was living in this year had three bedrooms: two doubles, one single. Lance had a double, and he shared the room with a kid named James. James was a sophomore, like Lance.

That was about it when it came to things they had in common.

Lance and James were polar opposites, but Lance actually didn’t mind the guy all that much.

On the one hand, James' side of the room was immaculate, the bed made so perfectly it would make an army officer weep. James himself, however, looked like hell in a sweatshirt 24/7. Double major and all (biology and chemistry, no big deal).

On the other hand, Lance's side of the room already looked like someone had made a clothing bomb and set it off alongside a pile of pencils. Stubby pencils and erasers missing their pencil friends were scattered everywhere, from his desk to his bedside stand to his sock drawer to god knows where else.

But Lance himself always looked “runway ready.” Or so he said.

His other three roommates were pretty decent. It wasn’t like he’d known any of them prior to move-in, but they all seemed nice enough and no one was too loud with their music or whatever.

Not that Lance could talk, since he loved to blast his music all the time at home. It was just a matter of time before he started doing it here.

The other guys were Omar, who was a special education major, Chris, who majored in biology like James (but without the crazy double major in chemistry), and Salvatore, also education with a focus in earth science. Salvatore was in the marching band on trombone, but he wasn’t a music student and therefore didn’t exactly relate to Lance’s music major lifestyle.

I.e. never leaving the fucking practice room. Or the music building, for that matter.

So… Lance was the one music major in the apartment.

In a way, it made him feel sort of special, buuuut it also felt kind of isolating, knowing he wouldn’t have anyone to geek out with over film scores and shit in his own apartment. Good thing he planned to basically live in the music building for the entire semester.

There _was,_ however, one thing that Lance noticed as soon as he moved in on day one: no one else seemed to have an affinity for keeping the damn place _clean._

Salvatore (“it’s Sal”) had moved in a couple weeks early because of marching band, and Chris had also moved in early because he and Sal were childhood friends and they’d already been planning to room together since last semester. Sal had the excuse of band. Chris just wanted to get the hell away from his family again.

By the time Lance moved in, the sink was full of dirtied dishes, the trash was practically overflowing with paper plates and takeout boxes, and the place smelled like dirty socks. Good thing Lance had packed some Febreeze.

Yeah, so none of them exactly saw eye to eye when it came to keeping clean. But one thing Lance did enjoy?

Washing dishes.

James thought he was nuts when, on the second night of classes, he walked into the living area (connected to a tiny kitchen), only to find Lance singing along to his iPhone while scrubbing away at a pot that had either been used for pasta or something equally sticky.

James hadn’t asked questions.

There was just _some_ thing about watching the pile in the sink grow smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but soap suds, something that made it supremely satisfying. It was nice when Lance could actually _see_ the bottom of the sink.

It was even better when he played music on his phone while he was cleaning. Time could just fly by, man. Washing dirty pots and singing along to the _Les Mis_ soundtrack was one of his favorite past times.

The first week was uneventful, save for printing out a crapload of syllabi, chatting with Sal, trying to get a decent conversation out of James that didn’t involve biochem, washing dirty dishes, and trying to make some beginning headway on his new pieces.

His lesson on Thursday had been super laid back since Coran knew that literally no one had actually practiced that much over the summer. Lance knew he wouldn't be so lucky in the future.

Lance had been sorta kinda super duper late in getting his repertoire. He hadn’t been able to make up his mind, so the e-mail from Coran had basically been a last-ditch effort, one that said, “since you can’t bloody make up your mind, I picked for you. Good luck.”

There was a lot of music to get through. But Lance squared his shoulders and reminded himself that this was going to be an awesome semester. It _had_ to be.

Lance was gonna kick this year's ass so hard, it wouldn't know what hit it.


	2. Studio Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck Darrel Stoker and also fuck studio hour

It was only the second week in and this semester was already kicking Lance’s ass.

The person in the bus seat in front of him smelled like dry shampoo. Lance could guiltily admit he'd used dry shampoo once or twice, so he knew enough to recognize the smell. It wasn't a great smell.

It was sort of like… factory-manufactured roses, with just a dash of B.O.

But whatever. Two exhausting weeks and way too much homework (like, _way_ too much, who did his professors think he was?) were _not_ going to ruin this semester for Lance.

Popping in his earbuds, he thumbed through a few songs on his iPhone until he found something he liked.

“Could Have Been Me,” by the Struts. A new favorite of his, since June of this summer. His mom had taken him to the concert - and while going to a concert with your mom might be kind of embarrassing for most college kids, Lance thought it was a pretty great time. His mom liked to rock out, what was so bad about that?

They’d sung along to the easy choruses and bopped their heads to the blasting music in the tiny venue. Man they were so _good._ Lance still didn’t know how his mom had gotten them on the invite list. He was glad she had, though.

Even now, he could feel himself smiling when the opening beats started up in his earbuds. He looked out the window of the shuttle bus and thought, _Nah, this semester might not be all that bad._

*****

Tuesday was studio day.

Studio was a one hour meeting held once every week, and it took place in the music school studios (hence, “studio”)

It was sort of like a lesson, but… with more people. And a lot more pressure to be perfect.

If you studied under the same instructor as someone else, that meant you were in their studio. It also meant you got to see the same, small group of people who wanted to be the best - the best at piano, the best at life (basically they just wanted to be better than you) - one hour a week, every week. And that wasn’t even counting the times you passed them in the hall on your way to music history.

Oh god, and don’t even get Lance started on recitals.

Luckily there weren’t a ton of people who studied under each instructor, so studio hour wasn’t meant for a full-fledged audience.

There were still too many people, though. Lance didn’t like performing unless it was under _his_ terms. For instance, if he was in a casual setting and someone wanted to hear a mostly-practiced rendition of “Piano Man.”

But performing in front of six other people _and_ your piano instructor? Lance would rather die.

Piano students milled around the keyboard hallway, waiting for it to be eleven o'clock already. Lance spotted a few freshman standing stiffly outside of Allura’s studio, shifting from foot to foot. Two guys and a girl.

The girl was wearing a nice pencil skirt and blouse, curly black hair tied back into a neat bun. Her brown cheeks looked tinged with a little green.

Lance knew the feeling.

He also knew Allura, a.k.a. Altea School of Music alum and piano badass extraordinaire.

Allura Delaroi: Terrifying force of nature. Played about five different instruments, including violin, cello, piano, flute, and the collective percussion section. Like, all the percussion.

Lance had… um, _mistakenly_ tried to hit on her on his first day as a freshman. Then he’d found out that she was a music instructor. And she’d graduated like, two years ago. So a little too old for him.

But freaking gorgeous, so could you really blame him?

Allura’s grandfather had also kinda sorta founded Altea School of Music, so there was that, too. Poor Lance was promptly pulled aside by - surprise surprise - Dr. Coran Juniper, who had immediately whispered (not even whispered, since half the hallway heard him) that Allura Delaroi was _not only a graduate, but one of our best instructors, and the technical heiress to the music school_ . _Watch yourself, Lance._

All Lance heard was, _Well-to-do older woman that he proooobably shouldn’t be messing with._

Did he regret trying to ask her out? Not really. Did he regret being called out by Coran for doing something stupid? Only always.

“Hello naughty children, it’s _studio time,”_ Pidge slid into view just then, hefting her tuba along with a grin like a cheesy movie villain. Only three other kids from Coran’s studio had shown up so far, and sisnce Pidge knew just about everyone in the school, she waved at the others standing just a few feet from Lance. She passed Lance by and shot him a finger gun, winking as she rounding the corner of the keyboard hallway. A couple other students snickered and watched as she brushed past them with the huge-ass tuba case in tow.

Pidge had her tuba studio one floor down, so Lance couldn’t even mourn his impending doom with one of his best friends. Hunk had clarinet studio downstairs, too, so that was a no. He decided to send him a snapchat anyway.

Holding the phone below his chin and angling it up towards his face, Lance gave the camera his most stunning pose that consisted of half his right eye and both of his nostrils, flared in all their majesty.

_Snap._

He checked to make sure the photo was worthy of use, then quickly typed in a caption: “ _Studio got me like:”_

He sent it. He doubted Hunk would even get it until after studio, but it was worth a shot.

Just as he was about to thumb away from the app, he got a notification from **HunkyClarinet:** The picture was a shot of the side of Hunk’s face, zoomed in to a ridiculous level, and the caption read: “ _Bruh, I feel.”_

Lance snorted and clicked out of the app, pocketing his phone. At least there was a little empathy to be had.

Hunk was the worrying type. If Lance knew Hunk at all, he was probably doing breathing exercises outside of Dr. Iverson’s studio right now, and probably freaking out the freshmen, too.

Lance waved weakly after Pidge and tried not to think too hard about whether or not he might be asked to play one of his assigned pieces. He’d practiced… but he knew he hadn’t practiced enough. It was then that he realized he’d forgotten to bring antacid tablets with him.

The doors opened.

“Morning everyone!” Coran’s chipper voice rang like a bell through the doorway. He was grinning too wide for someone who probably woke up every morning at five a.m., and who claimed he didn’t drink coffee. Coran waved at Lance and the other five students now hovering outside the studio, ushering them all in to grab a seat where they could find one.

Two baby grand pianos sat side by side in the carpeted studio. The furthest one sat right next to the tall windows on the far side of the room. The rest of the space was either occupied by Coran’s desk, or by six piano students trying to fit as best they could in a space that was entirely too small for them.

On the one hand, Lance liked how cozy it was. On the other hand, it was still too many people that he would have to play for every week.

There weren’t any freshman in the studio this year, but Lance picked out a new face right away - he recognized the guy’s face from one of his theory classes. Darrel Stoker, he remembered. Wasn’t he a performance major?

No pressure or anything.

The first thing he noticed, however, was that Keith wasn’t here.

Maybe he’d been transferred back to Dr. Primakov? Lance silently hoped so.

He looked around at the other, more familiar faces from last year and tried to remember the name of the girl sitting on the floor in the corner of the studio, just next to Coran’s desk. She played a lot of jazz and always wore flannel. Rumor had it she also cried a lot, but that was none of Lance’s business.

It was weird, most musicians sort of knew each other because of their studios and because most of them were part of orchestra or marching band or something.

Pianists… didn’t really do marching band. Could you imagine wheeling out a seven-foot concert grand onto the field for a halftime show?

Yeah, neither can a pianist.

And most other studios were a lot more tight-knit because they could perform together, like voice majors, who could sing in the super advanced choirs or do the opera, or woodwinds, who could suffer together in the school’s orchestra and give pointers on reed-making. But pianists? In some respects, they were sort of the loners out of the instrument families.

As soon as the door was halfway shut behind him, Coran turned around, smiling warmly with his arms behind his back, army style.

“Hope you all had a restful summer,” he said happily, “because there’s _quite_ a bit of work to be done this semester, if I’m remembering everyone’s repertoire correctly.” Lance swallowed. “I’ll expect you folks to be giving it your all. Juries are never as far away as they seem.” He waved a finger in the air, winking.

Oh, Lance didn’t need to be reminded of just how close juries were, looming just a little ways off in the distance, ready to sink its teeth into the music students. He’d learned that the hard way in first semester. How had he managed to do that well on his juries, anyway?

A crash course in juries for the non-music major:

Juries have absolutely nothing to do with law. Not if you’re in music school.

But they _do_ have _everything_ to do with your future, and whether or not you’re good enough to spend another year studying music.

At the end of the semester during exam week (as if there isn’t already enough to worry about) you steel yourself for the worst, try to remember the fingering for that one particularly difficult part in that particularly difficult piece you slaved over for sixteen weeks, and then you go in front of a panel of judges - the piano professors - and you play.

Sight reading. Technique. Performance.

In other words, a custom-made cocktail courtesy of some music school poltergeist, whose sole intent is to make you shit yourself before you’ve so much as stepped foot into the concert hall.

It’s either you practice, or you fail. And there’s no cramming for juries.

“We have a couple new additions to our studio this semester,” said Coran. He waved towards Darrel, who didn’t look fazed at all. In fact, Lance could swear the guy didn’t even blink behind the thin-rimmed glasses and upturned nose.

Darrel Stoker was wearing pressed khakis (Lance was already cringing on the inside), a navy sweater with a green and light blue plaid design, and underneath, a beige button-down. His shoes were boring and very obviously new.

In other words, Lance could imagine, a fresh-outta-prep-school perfectionist who probably cared more about practicing than he cared about having a social life.

“I’m sure some of you already know Darrel. He’s a performance major. I know most of you are composition or jazz, but I expect you all to work equally hard.”

Lance wanted to scoff. _Right, like we can all just sit down for five hours like fuckin’_ Darrel _and practice Prokofiev. Not that I’d_ want _to be a khaki-wearing prodigy,_ he thought bitterly.

But he shouldn’t be judging. His friends were a bunch of music nerds who got together once a month to play DnD, and in the meantime geeked out over movie soundtracks. Calling Darrel a full blown nerd would be hypocrisy.

The thing about people who were particularly good at their instrument was that everyone in the music school knew who you were. This wasn’t always a good thing. You didn’t even have to meet people personally, it was just that in a music school everyone starts to know everyone. _Oh, you were that prodigy that Dr. Haxus took under his wing? I don’t know how I feel about you personally, but I’ll assume you’re some sort of piano demigod._

It’s kind of like that.

Anyway, Coran had just asked Lance to play.

Lance was sort of zoning out, unfortunately, and only caught the tail end of Coran’s sentence, which was, “-Prelude number two. Gershwin!”

That was Lance’s piece. _Fuck, fuck fuck. Fuck this shit._

His already nervous stomach reminded him that he really should have packed those tablets.

“Keith seems to be running a bit late,” Coran checked his watch, then his desktop, nodding to himself. “But we might as well get started. Hopefully he won’t miss too much. Lance,” he looked around again towards the corner where Lance had snagged a small IKEA-style chair, sans arms or legs. Just a cube with a cushion, really. “You’re up.”

The last sentence contained subtext that read, _Were you listening, or were you spacing out.... Again?_

“Um,” Lance started, looking up from his seat by the door, “Me?” he said, blinking. Coran’s face took on that sort of kind, patient expression that parents get when they don’t want to embarrass their kid, but also realize that they just aren’t paying attention.

“Yes, Lance. You.” He nodded encouragingly. “It doesn’t have to be much, just play what you can. You have been working on the Gershwin, right?”

Lance’s mouth felt dry. Well, yeah, he had, but that didn't mean he was ready to play it in front of everyone.

He nodded, standing up from his seat. Everyone was looking at him.

Shit, it’d been awhile since the last time he’d played for someone other than his parents. There was that familiar raging in his gut, the clammy hands. He tried to inconspicuously wipe them on the sides of his jeans, but denim sucks at wicking away moisture. Also, the studio was tiny, so most people probably noticed anyway.

He could already feel his hands shaking like he’s had four shots of espresso as he made his way over to the piano by the window, crummy photocopies of sheet music in hand. _Deep breaths, you’ll be fine._

His stomach disagreed. He tried to ignore the way it twisted and made him feel the need to sit down on the floor with his head tucked between his knees.

It should be mentioned that Lance, try as he might to control it, had performance anxiety.

Very bad performance anxiety.

He’d been improving ever since his first semester here, but a thing like that wasn’t so easy to get under control, and a whole summer without performing was probably the worst thing he could have done for himself.

He squeezed past one kid, Aaron, sitting on the other stool, stepped carefully around the three students sitting cross-legged on the carpet, and brushed right past Darrel Stoker, who sat with a glib expression on the stool next to the second piano. Lance didn’t want this guy anywhere near him while he was playing, but in the end, it couldn’t be helped. He took a seat.

The bench felt too low. Trying to quell the nerves, he sat up straight and set the music down on the rack. The notes swam on the page. He couldn’t focus.

Another thing that should be mentioned: Lance McClain was ass at sight-reading.

Good thing he’d practiced.

Rubbing his hands one last time on his useless freaking jeans, he raised his left hand, spreading his fingers above the two E’s below middle C.

Just as he brought his hand down, someone knocked at the door.

 

* * *

 

Keith remembered his first studio hour in freshman year.

He’d sat with his arms folded across his chest, a book of Chopin etudes sitting bored in his lap as he eyed everyone else in the little studio. He’d probably tried his best not to glare. People sometimes told him that he had a habit of glaring. It made him look “angsty” and “unapproachable.”

They said he should really try smiling for a change, instead of glaring like a serial killer. And by “they,” that would be the choice few people he knew from the performance major meetings once every five weeks in the smallest concert venue at the music school: The Wat Theatre.

(“Where’s the concert?” “Wat.” “I said where’s the concert?” “I said, _Wat._ ” Yeah, most students knew that joke within their first week at Altea).

But anyway, back to Keith and glaring. Something he most certainly didn’t do.

He _wasn’t_ glaring, he wanted to tell them. _It’s just my face!_

It didn’t help that he was a good pianist, either.

With music students being some of the most competitive people in the whole fucking universe, being a prodigy didn’t get you _liked._

Hell, most of the time it got you _hated._

Keith couldn’t help it, okay? He liked music. He was _good_ at music. The foster home he’d grown up in was hardcore about being “passionate” about stuff, and as soon as his foster parents discovered his gifts on the piano, they had expected him to practice three hours a day, minimum.

They wanted him to be able to support himself when he was an adult, which was understandable, and if music was his passion, then hell, he might as well be good at it. Maybe he could even make a career out of it. That sort of logic was hard to argue with.

But people didn’t just _know_ that. People didn’t know all that much about Keith’s childhood, because he didn’t talk about it all that much.

He’d had Shiro to talk to, ever since high school when he was a freshman and Shiro was a senior. Shiro was the only one who talked to him.

Shiro was also a student here - grad student, violin performance - and he was the closest friend Keith had probably ever had. It was almost like having an older brother.

People here at Altea loved Shiro, because he was goofy and smart, and passionate about his music.

And super attractive, but all Keith saw was this dorky kid from high school who loved violin and who’d taken Keith under his wing by helping him out with piano.

Plus, he was just a great guy to talk to, too. God knows Keith had bad days. Musicians aren’t _machines,_ no matter how hard they try to be.

But people saw Keith and heard talk from other students, and the talk was mostly, “He was a prodigy. Studies under Dr. Primakov, ‘though I heard Dr. Sendak really wants him in his studio. Yeah, he does look kinda angry doesn’t he?”

A prodigy.

That, or the Super-Edgy angsty loner pianist. He’d heard mixes of both. It stung, but he wasn’t twelve anymore. He got over it.

When Keith was a junior in high school, Shiro had suggested maybe taking a sample lesson over at Altea, where Shiro was studying at the time before spending his last two years of undergrad at Oberlin. Keith’s parents had been making him look at prospective colleges ever since sophomore year, so when Keith brought up Shiro’s suggestion to them, the response was immediate.

Keith started lessons with Dr. Primakov in his second semester of eleventh grade, and the rest was history.

And with that, any chance he had of making friends. At least, it looked that way.

*****

Keith was five minutes late to studio.

And it was all because - just his luck - he missed the elevator, ergo he had to climb three flights of stairs to get to the keyboard hallway.

By the time he reached studio #307, everyone else was already there, sitting on the carpeted floor or on little square stools with cushions. One kid even sat on the bench at the spare piano. Keith recognized Darrel Stoker from a master class last year. He still looked like just as much of a prick as the last time.

He was a little out of breath, but Keith managed to collect himself enough to tap his knuckles at the doorframe. The door was already open, but it was polite to knock anyway.

Six pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

There sure were a lot of people in this studio… which didn’t bother Keith so much as it made him wonder where he was going to sit.

As his own eyes did a quick scan of the people in the studio, he caught sight of that kid from the library, sitting at the baby grand piano by the window. Lance, he remembered. The guy who sat in the middle row during music theory II and called out answers to the professor’s questions - without raising his hand. It was always a pet peeve of Keith’s. He hadn’t been a huge fan of Lance McClain from the beginning.

But a lot of other people in the music school seemed to like him, so he must have been doing _something_ right.

Lance looked like he’d been right in the middle of playing. Or getting ready to play. Whichever it was, he looked frozen now.

The second Keith knocked on the door, any music that had been playing stopped immediately.

It was weird, when Keith looked at Lance and his wide, wide eyes he saw a strange transition from terrified, to relieved, and then to... disappointed. Keith wondered if he was the reason for that.

He also wondered how someone like Lance, so loud and confident and a little bit annoying, could possibly look so out of his depth just from sitting at a piano.

The audience, maybe? There were only five other students and the instructor, but Keith wasn’t stupid enough not to realize that to some, six people was more than enough for an audience. Keith couldn’t remember if Lance was a performance major or not. Somehow, he doubted it.

“Sorry I’m late,” Keith mumbled. “...Elevator,” he added. A half-assed excuse. He really could’ve just sprinted the staircase, but then he’d have been winded for studio, and that would just be awkward.

“Keith, so glad you could make it,” Coran said, turning in his swivel chair to face the doorway. “Have a seat!” There was very obviously no room left to sit, except for right in the middle of the floor, next to a wavy-haired girl in flannel, a guy in neat jeans and a blazer, and another guy in ripped jeans and, surprise surprise, more flannel. Keith wondered if any of them were jazzers.

“Lance was just about to play some Gershwin for us,” Coran said, eyes twinkling. Lance gave no reaction, other than perhaps turning a shade paler. Keith frowned. No one made eye contact. “Whenever you’re ready, Lance.”

The saddest part was, this was already a much warmer reception than Keith had received on his first day in Primakov’s studio as a college freshman.

He watched Lance raise a hand over the keys again, and he was visibly uncomfortable. There was a slight tremor running from the tips of his fingers up to his wrist, but it was only noticeable if you knew what to look for. Keith had always had a habit of looking at his competition at big recitals, to try and predict how their performances would go.

It was such a bizarre thing, to see someone that Keith was used to seeing off in the halls with a sort of overconfident swagger in his step and a bright smile plastered on his face, always telling a joke, making other students laugh. Then seated at a piano in front of, what, seven people? And suddenly it was like someone had ripped away the confident persona and replaced it with that of someone with a weak stomach who’d just taken a ride on Splash Mountain. The difference was startling.

Keith felt nervous just _looking_ at him. He had no doubt that at least a couple other people here felt the same way.

It was a few more seconds before Lance actually dropped his hands to the keys and started [playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8grW7A-qI8).

It was a simple piece, Gershwin’s “Blue Lullaby,” so naturally it was at a slower tempo. The tune was meant to be almost hypnotic, something you could be lulled to sleep with, but so early on in the semester it was clear that Lance was more focused on actually playing the right notes than getting the phrasing right. His hand sounded too heavy, the notes muffled by the _una corde_ a little too rich in overtones. The right hand entered, and within the next two measures, he hit a bum note.

The nervous body language in Lance’s playing was immediate, and painfully obvious. It was clear that all he could think about was that one, tiny mistake. The rhythm fell apart before regaining some sense of steadiness. Lance kept playing.

Keith couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy... even if he _had_ snapped at Keith just last week about some stupid sheet music.

When he looked more closely, he saw Lance’s leg shaking, although he seemed to be doing a good job of pressing the sustain with that same foot.

A little too good of a job, actually. There never seemed to be a break in all the notes that were being held together. As a result, the sound was muddy. More browns, less blues.

Lance stopped playing before he was even halfway through. Shoulders tense, he let his hands fall to his lap.

When it was clear that he was done, everyone in the studio clapped politely.

“‘M still trying to work out the left hand for the rest of it,” Lance muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He sounded like his throat had gone dry. His face was already beginning to flush pink.

When Keith looked around to see what Coran had to say, the man’s face was impressively relaxed. After a pause of silence, he nodded, twisting one end of his moustache between two fingers. “A good start, Lance. A long way to go, but a good start.”

Lance offered a smile that looked very forced. His eyes wandered the room, avoiding Coran’s gaze, and as his eyes continued to flick around Keith noticed that Lance was avoiding _his_ gaze, too. Lance was embarrassed, that much was obvious.

The worst part about all of it? Keith had actually heard someone playing this piece in a practice room just yesterday, with the same heavy hand and everything. But the music had been much cleaner. All the notes had been there, and the person playing had definitely gotten through more than half the piece.

If it was Lance that Keith had heard practicing, then this performance here was absolutely _not_ a reflection of what he was capable of. And it certainly wasn’t a result of lack of talent or slacking off - no, Keith was almost one hundred percent sure that Lance could play so much better. He could play just as well as any of the other kids in here, probably. Or maybe better.

But just not in front of an audience. And that was a damn shame, Keith thought.

“Any comments?” Coran asked.

Keith deliberately kept his hands in his lap. Hell _no_ he wasn’t going to say anything. And make it worse? He was already (he assumed) on Lance’s shit list. Best to not rub salt in the wound.

At first, everyone kept silent.

Then ( _shocker_ ) Darrel Stoker raised his hand. Coran nodded for him to speak.

“So,” Darrel started in his usual, nasal tenor, “firstly, it was... nice, but I think you could really ease up on the sustain.” Lance nodded for lack of a better response.

It was no secret in the piano major world that Darrel Stoker, talented though he was, was not widely liked by a lot of people. In fact, most performance majors dreamed of wringing his short, thick neck and tossing him into the nearest dumpster. But propriety was key, and murder was sort of frowned upon, so instead they just eyed him as he passed by in the hall or stared daggers into his back while sitting behind him in class.

But he wasn’t done commenting on Lance’s performance. “Also,” he added, adjusting his glasses, “your rhythm was stilted, do you work with a metronome when you practice?”

Lance hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sometimes.”

“I’d probably start using a metronome more often in the practice room,” Darrel said. “It would help you a lot. Otherwise, nice start on the piece.” He sounded maybe thirty-percent sincere, seventy percent smug.

Coran was bobbing his head slowly, still twisting his moustache. “All good notes… yes, Lance, I do agree that a metronome would be very useful during practice.” He crossed one leg over the other as he looked around the rest of the little studio. “Anyone else care to comment?”

No one did, it appeared.

Lance looked ready to bolt from the piano bench and possibly into the next dimension.

To be honest, now all Keith wanted to do was piss off Darrel Stoker before he could completely ruin everyone else’s day. Without realizing he was doing it, he raised his hand. Coran nodded to him. “Keith, a comment?”

“Yeah,” Keith turned to look at Lance, keeping his gaze at Lance’s ear instead of his eyes. “Well considering you’re not a performance major,” he began, and Lance’s eyes immediately narrowed, “I think it was a really great start. Performing in front of people can be really difficult and sometimes it throws off a performance, I get that. So the fact that you kept on going even after you made a couple flubs is something you should be proud of.” The look on Lance’s face was hard to read. It was almost… what was the word?

Stunned.

Keith added by way of ending his comment, “So… yeah. Keep it up. But yeah, I think a metronome would be really useful. And for the first few measures of the piece, I might suggest going back to practice hands separately again. Stuff like that can only help you. Um… so yeah.”

He decided to stop talking. Honestly he’d already talked a hell of a lot more than he wished he had, but it was too late now. Everyone was already staring at him. Keith wasn’t sure what to make of their expressions. Just to be safe, he assumed the worst.

“Some very good advice,” Coran remarked, eyebrow raised. “Thank you, Keith. Lance, you’re free to sit back down.”

“Yeah… thanks,” Lance murmured, before collecting his music and practically tripping over himself to get back to his seat by the desk. He passed Keith in the process, still not looking at him.

Keith couldn’t even be mad. Studio hour sucked ass for everyone. When it came down to it, music school in general just kind of sucked the life out of you, sometimes. And everyone had bad days.

Two other people played in studio that day: the girl in flannel, whose name was Aubrey, and Darrel, who volunteered like the prick he was to perform his already-memorized Rachmaninoff etude, which he’d been working on since the middle of the summer.

No one offered up comments after Darrel’s performance.

One minute before noon, Coran dismissed everyone, telling everyone to “make sure you sign up for playing time! Slots for the next two months are on the sheet on the door. I’d like you all to play in at least three studio hours before spring break.”

A couple students grumbled at the prospect of having to play for studio. Darrel Stoker was the first to pull out a pencil and scribble in his name for four slots. No one argued.

While Lance stayed back to talk to Coran about switching a lesson time, Keith was the last person left with the schedule. He frowned at the last few slots available and penciled in his name. He had a lot of rep this semester, but he didn’t mind only performing a couple things. This semester was Debussy, Grieg, Haydn, and Chopin again. Apparently he was pretty good with Chopin.

Finished with the schedule, he quietly took a step back into the studio and set the paper down on Coran’s desk. Neither the instructor nor Lance paid him any attention, so Keith shrugged and left without a goodbye, making his way down the keyboard hall.

He remembered that he still needed to lend Lance that sheet music at some point. Maybe he could get away with just one more week.

 

* * *

 

“Really Lance, I think asking some friends to listen to you play could be very beneficial to you.” Coran was going on like any good instructor would, trying to advise Lance without being too harsh, and at the same time not too coddling. “And if the nerves are really too much, I can recommend some good articles about managing performance anxiety. Plenty of people have it.”

“It’s really ok, Coran,” Lance insisted, “but I appreciate it.” God, he just wanted to get _out_ of here already. He hadn’t even eaten lunch yet, and Hunk was waiting for him in the main lobby down on the first floor.

“You know, I think it might even be a good idea for you to go and talk to Keith Kogane.”

“ _Who?_?” Lance sputtered. He felt his face flush red, although whether it was from anger or pure embarrassment, he didn’t know.

“Keith?” Coran looked confused. “The one who showed up late to studio today? I thought you would have at least met him in passing before today.”

“No no!” Lance waved his hands around in the air, “I knew who he was before today but, I just -- _Keith?_ No. Please, no.”

“Performance majors aren’t out for your blood, Lance,” Coran sighed. His moustache drooped along with his exasperated frown. “He’s very good at what he does, I’ve heard him play a few times. Keeping with the meter seems to come quite easily for him.”

“Yeah, well, good for him.”

“He’d probably be able to help you feel out the rhythm of the piece, instead of leaving you to make guesses and hoping they’re right.”

“I’ve totally got rhythm!” Lance argued, but Coran raised a hand to _shush_ him.

“Yes, perhaps you do - when you’re dancing.” Lance gaped, but Coran went on, “Don’t think I don’t see you getting up to your little antics in the halls. You’re very partial to blasting Beyonce on your phone, I won’t argue with your taste in pop music. _However,_ ” he said before Lance could interrupt, _“_ I think it was clear today that your Gershwin…”

Lance’s shoulders sagged as he finished for him, “Yeah, I know,” he said with a grimace, “it’s got about as much rhythm as Barbara Walters’s hips.”

Coran chuckled. “Well, I wasn’t going to say it like _that,”_ he said. “But my advice still stands. Talk to your friends. And I mean it when I say you should talk to Keith. He could really give you some handy pointers.”

Reflecting on it for a few seconds, Lance would really rather bury himself in a colony of red ants than do something like ask Keith Kogane for help. But that would be a teensy bit dramatic. Hey, Lance was good at being dramatic. “Fine,” he huffed, “I’ll talk to Keith. Eventually.”

“‘Atta boy.”

“But I mean, um, not today,” he said. “Maybe not even this week.” _Or this month,_ Lance thought.

“As long as you’re practicing and working hard, that’s all that matters to me,” said Coran.

Lance forced a smile. _What a great guy, though??_ Lance almost felt guilty.

It wasn’t like he’d _lied_ to Coran or anything. He would still talk to Keith.

...Eventually

Shouldering his school bag, Lance said a quick “thanks Coran, see you on Thursday,” and left.

That should have been the end of the nerves, but it wasn’t.

There were always the aftershocks, the little tremors in his hands, leftover sweat on his palms and the tingling on the back of his neck. It always happened when he performed.

Some days were worse than others. Some days, he could shake it off.

Other days, though, he couldn’t. He would find himself stumbling into a bathroom after studio hour with spotty vision, head swimming, and reach out to catch himself on the side of a stall before he could allow his knees to give out. He’d lock the door and stay like that, face flushed and too warm, and he’d wish that he’d put on more deodorant that day because he was _totally_ going to have pit stains. He’d breathe a deep breath, then do it again. Sometimes he’d pinch the bridge of his nose or hold both hands over his forehead while he steadied his breathing and tried to clear his thoughts.

The worst time was right after his first recital.

It hadn’t even been a real recital, just some little performance the school put on once a month, in the big lobby of the music building for visitors from various senior homes. Coran had put Lance in the program for a Mozart piece.

He’d fucked it up brilliantly. Afterwards, he’d beelined for the bathroom, where he broke down in one of the stalls and cried ugly tears, unable to breathe as he silently wondered why he’d ever picked piano in the first place.

Hunk found him ten minutes later (he’d come to the recital with Pidge to support Lance, naturally). For a good five minutes he just stood outside of Lance’s stall, offering words of comfort and encouragement and jokes until Lance finally sniffled and came out, practically tripping into his friend’s outstretched arms for a big bear hug.

If Lance was great at one thing, he was great at hugs. Lance gave hugs like it was the last chance he had in the world to hug that person in particular, wrapping his whole damn body around his victim like a gangly koala. When he hugged people, he hugged the _shit_ out of them. “It’s only freshman year,” Hunk had insisted quietly in between Lance’s sniffling. “It’ll turn out fine, you’ll see.”

Hunk was the best at making people feel better.

Unfortunately for Lance, this sort of thing couldn’t just be talked away. Either he’d have to start doing yoga, or start taking Beta blockers every time he had to perform. The second one sounded expensive. The first one sounded time consuming.

But hey, if he could manage to squeeze in a Zumba class at the school rec center once a week, then he could find a way to fit in yoga.

In the end, he’d decided on taking the antacid tablets and not eating breakfast on studio days. The less he ate, the less his body would want to make him puke.

God, he just wanted to get over this. It was really, really hard to have a good time in college when all he could think about was trying _not_ to suck at something he loved so much.

He looked down at his phone. There was a text notification from  **Hunk Hale :p** on the screen. He unlocked his phone and clicked into his messages, where Hunk's latest read:  _lunch?_

Lance grinned and typed back.

 **Lance:**   _Main lobby in 5?_

 **Hunk Hale :p :** _Cool_ , _see u in 5_

 **Lance:**   _Eddie's?_

 **Hunk Hale :p :** _I was kinda feelin tacos today tbh. u down?_

 **Lance:** _Altea Taqueria it is :)_

 **Hunk Hale :p :** _sweet_

He turned off his phone and stuffed it in his backpack, along with his crumpled up music and stubby half-pencils he still had from last year. _Deep breaths,_ he told himself. It was one studio hour, this semester was not going to be ruined by one little studio hour.

Still, studio never sat well with him for at least an hour or so afterwards. Tacos would help. Tacos were the duct tape of food, sort of like the catch-all to patching up a bad mood or a bad day. So Lance decided he was going to put on a better face, go to lunch with Hunk, and hopefully (hopefully) not dwell too much on the shitty side. This semester was gonna be... great. Yeah.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Spring break means time to write, so I wasn't gonna pass up MR when I got the chance. Here's chapter two, y'all.
> 
> also, please don't be afraid to leave comments!


	3. Hold the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimme an S, gimme a U, gimme a whatever spells out the rest of SUPPRESSED FEELINGS amirite folks

 

Hearing Keith Kogane single him out as a non-performance major made Lance a little prickly. But he let it slide, mostly because of what Keith said next.

“Performing in front of people can be really difficult and sometimes it throws off a performance, I get that,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the studio like some emo five-year-old with that stupid mullet pulled back. In a friggin _ponytail_. “So the fact that you kept on going even after you made a couple of flubs is something you should be proud of.”

Lance had no idea what to say to that.

What  _do_ you say to that?

This was Keith Kogane, one of Altea’s musical prodigies. How does anyone even respond to a comment like that, anyway? Maybe he should’ve said something. Like, “thanks,” or something along those lines. Something normal.

But did he do that? Nope. Instead Lance kept his mouth shut and let his eyes linger over the piano keys, terrified of making eye contact with anyone in the studio. Maybe it was for the better.

Everyone in the studio was silent after that. Especially Darrell Stoker.

* * *

 

By the time studio had ended, Keith was fifty percent ready to run out of there, and fifty percent tempted to linger behind, talk to Coran about his rep and ask a question he had about the Brahms.

Oh, shit, and speaking of….

He still owed Lance that sheet music, didn’t he?

* * *

 

 

Friday

 

Lance didn’t really know that much about any of his four roommates before he moved in. He was an extrovert, sure. He loved a good party, but... _damn_. It looked like his roommates loved them even more.

They were barely a month into the semester and this was the third (fourth?) party Chris had thrown at the apartment.

Oh, and uh, he’d done that _without_ his roommates’ permission.

But the others didn’t seem to care a whole lot. Omar was always ready for a party, Salvatore didn’t give a fuck either way, and James was usually at the library until late anyway. He normally got back just in time to witness the final hour - and knock back a few shots of his own, before calling it a night and going to bed.

Lance just hoped this wouldn’t keep on being a regular thing. He liked his quiet time just as much as he liked his parties, thanks. He wasn’t like, a homebody or a buzzkill or anything, he just wasn’t all that into aggressively partying away his college career. He’d gotten enough of that in freshman year (stories for another day, ugh).

Chris had, unbeknownst to everyone else in the apartment, invited about… ehhh, twelve people over?

Or maybe thirteen.

Omar, catching wind of the party maybe an hour before it started, took it upon himself to invite four more over.

Then _Salvatore_ decided he should just go ahead and hop onto that bandwagon, and called up three or four of _his_ friends to join in the fun.

The only heads-up Lance got was thirty minutes before he caught the bus back to the apartment, when he got a Facebook chat notification that the others wanted _him_ to chip in ten bucks for the booze.

Whatever. He’d just have to make sure to drink his money’s worth, right?

Oh, and he supposed he’d also better text Hunk to come along. Pidge too, but he doubted she’d want in. Pidge and alcohol didn’t exactly mix well. The alcohol didn’t stand a chance, and neither did Pidge’s kidneys.

By the time Lance got back from the music building - around ten o’clock at night - the apartment was a little too crowded to be comfortable. Half of the partygoers were already hammered and the other half were well on their way.

Something smelled like weed. Weed, probably.

Lance knew approximately zero people in the apartment, excluding his roommates. He counted about twenty people, twelve guys, eight girls, and everyone was doing their very best to get wasted before the clock struck twelve. A bunch of alcoholic Cinderellas.

He squeezed past a couple people holding red Solo cups. Someone’s iPod blasted something with a good beat from a crummy set of speakers on the kitchen table. A few people were doing a crappier job of bouncing to the music on the downbeat.

A few others were playing a rousing game of beer pong in the middle of the living room, using a table they’d moved from next to the window. One couple was too busy swapping spit on the couch to give a shit about anyone else.

All in all, same as the two or three other parties that had already taken place here.

The first one had been the worst, though (and it’d been the night Lance moved in, too. _First impressions, amiright?_ )

With a sigh, Lance made his way to his room, set down his backpack on the bed, shut the door behind him and tried not to slam it. Should he say something to Chris? This was a little out of hand, even if it was a Friday night.

With the door closed, some of the noise was muffled. He savored the quiet, thinking ahead to what was definitely going to be a long night. This was the calm before the storm.

And by storm, that meant getting totally trashed in his own apartment. But he’d wait until Hunk got here. Poor guy didn’t have a car, so, like Lance, he’d have to catch the bus down.

His room (his _side_ of the room, he should say) was kind of disgusting. Maybe he’d take a few hours this weekend to go through and organize a little. Or not.

Yeah, maybe not. He looked around and saw the neatly made bed on the other side of the room by the window. The blinds were shut, same as always. James liked it dark in here which was, hey, fine by Lance. It wasn’t like he ever spent any time down here at the apartments, anyway. Lance checked his phone for the fifth time. _C’mon, Hunk, answer me buddy._

 

As it turned out, Hunk had actually made other plans.

Lance didn’t get much out of him, other than, _Hey sorry bro, made plans to check out that new pizza place in town w/ someone I met in discrete math. Will txt later._

Person? He wasn’t even gonna specify guy or girl?

Lance was going to have some _words_ with the guy tomorrow, for sure.

Sighing heavily, he rolled his neck and braced himself for the hours to come. Did he hear someone shout something about beer pong?

His fatal weakness. Watching a bunch of inebriated assholes fail at throwing little plastic balls into red solo cups, only to ruin their bodies even more with _more_ booze. Oh, the joys of university life away from main campus.

Sure enough, four guys were dragging the heavy kitchen table away from the kitchen area into the middle of the living area, all of them laughing, all of them crazy drunk. But clearly sober enough to line up a bunch of solo cups into little pyramids on either end of the table.

At that point, James came walking in through the front door.

By some stroke of godly luck, he didn’t throw a hissy fit when he saw the mess before him.

Instead, Omar stepped up to the plate and offered him a shot. Grateful, James looked at the little shot glass in his hand for all of a second before he knocked it back like a pro, not even batting an eye.

Omar slapped him on the back. “You up for a round of pong, my friend?”

“What’re the rules?” some dude asked before James could respond - douchebag, by the looks of his snapback and muscle tee that read “I’d Flex But I Like This Shirt.” The guy’s hair was long enough that it could’ve been pulled back in a ponytail if he really wanted, but he’d chosen to wear it loose. He didn’t even look like he went to the gym more than two or three times a week. Freakin poser, man.

“Fff _fuck_ the rules, bruh,” said Chris, raising his cup in the air. A couple other guys guffawed, hollering for the rest of the room to either join in the game or make room. Some people stepped up to play. The rest made no move to go anywhere, except to grab another beer or to plant their asses on the stiff-as-cardboard chairs that came with the apartment.

Only one girl volunteered to play. At least six guys offered to team up with her. Lance wouldn’t lie, her eyeliner was sharp and she had poutier lips than Ariana, so even he couldn’t help but want to team with her, too. That, and the v neck of her crop top was erring on the side of _dangerous._

But pong wasn’t his game. He _lived_ to play spectator for these mob scenes, scenes that usually ended in loud altercations and someone getting their stupid, drunk feelings hurt.  

Lo and behold, they were two minutes in when dudebro in the muscle tee managed to ram his wrist into the side of the table.

To be honest, he probably didn’t feel a thing due to the insane amount of alcohol probably in his bloodstream by that point, but he certainly made a show of looking injured, anyway.

James was on the scene in a heartbeat, holding out his arms like a Messiah in sweats. Where he’d tossed his backpack since getting back was a mystery.  “It’s _okay_ , everyone, I am a _doctor_.”

Lance scoffed and set down his red solo cup, which was only half full as of right now. “You are _not.”_

“Oh really?” James said, hands on his hips. He looked hilarious, considering James was not only the whitest, preppiest boy Lance had ever met (also one of the nicest, but still), but Lance had never so much as pictured the kid raising his voice above indoor volume. Now, though, the guy was…

As the kids say: _Lit_.

Yeah, James was at least three or four shots in, which was nothing to scoff at for him, and Lance really really needed to find his phone so he could start filming. His somewhat buzzed brain was telling him it would be entertaining for him in the days - perhaps years - to come.

“You’re only studying to be a doctor,” Lance laughed, giving James a once over. His roommate’s face was a little pink, his nose even more so than the rest of him, and by the looks of it, his own solo cup was almost empty.

James looked like he couldn’t care less. “Stand back everyone,” he yelled, calling most of the room’s drunken attention to himself, “I am _almost_ a doctor.”

Everyone else in the living room laughed, raising their cups as James downed the rest of whatever was in his own. “Good enough, I guess,” Lance said with a shrug. The music blared.

Somehow, the shit speakers still managed to make the walls vibrate with the heavy _thumps_ of something that sounded... pretty awesome, actually.

Lance wished he knew the name of it so he could find it again when he wasn’t feeling so hazy. _Struggles, man_. There weren’t any lyrics, which wasn’t especially helpful.

With an anxiety in his stomach that was somewhat dulled by the alcohol, he hoped they wouldn’t get a noise complaint.

Ot worse - Leslie the RA.

Leslie was nice, Lance thought, and hey, she was great to talk to. But she was also clearly a stickler for rules, and _this_ definitely would not fly if she was the one to catch them.

But she also preferred to go on her little patrols on the other side of lower campus, so there wasn’t much to worry about. Lance shrugged it off and went back to watching Omar, who currently had the most points and a shot glass ready in hand again, courtesy of one very intoxicated Chris. He raised the glass before downing it. A few people cheered.

It was a small party, but packed nonetheless. About twenty people in total, all crammed into one very small campus apartment - along with two twenty-four packs of really cheap beer, two handles of vodka, some random ass bottle of wine that looked like it hadn’t even been opened, and some orange stuff in a big, purple pitcher on the kitchen table that Lance didn’t wanna touch.

Omar had made it, and if he knew Omar at all by now in the span of a few weeks, he knew enough not to trust that dude with his drinks (not in the “drugging the alcohol” kind of way, but more in the “how much alcohol can I mix together to make sure you’re properly hung over to the point of near-death the next morning” kind of way).

Lance would stick to beer and his cup of vodka mixed with Gingerale. Or in this case, rum and Coke. Thanks.

He checked his phone again, just in case Hunk had changed his mind and decided to come over instead.

Nope. Lance’s phone screen remained blank, save for the digital clock, date, and his lockscreen’s wallpaper of Valentina Lisitsa playing ferociously in Carnegie Hall.

Frowning, he took another sip of his rum and coke. One rain check wasn’t a big deal, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Saturday.

Lance hadn’t had that much to drink.

At least, he didn’t _think_ he did.

There was no hangover, thank god, so he was at least proud of that, but there was a substantial mess in the kitchen and living area that morning to be taken care of aaand oh yeah, he was gonna be the one to clean this all up, wasn’t he?

Still in a sleep haze, he dragged himself into the kitchen and got to work on the dishes, wondering why he was doing them but also not caring enough to stop.

Besides, he couldn’t stand to eat anything when there was a huge pile of dirty dishes staring him in the face.

He turned the volume low on his phone and hit shuffle.

Ariana Grande was first to play. Absolutely no complaints there.

Lance wished he could turn it up, but he wasn’t too sure how the rest of his (undoubtedly hungover) roommates would feel about that.

Humming and bopping his head, he scrubbed at a bowl crusted in something he was totally cool with _not_ knowing the identity of .

It didn’t take long for the humming to turn to singing.

“ _A little less conversation and a little more touch my bod-dayy, ‘cause I’m so into you, into you.”_

He sang in his poppiest pop-star voice, the one he liked to use when he was really feeling the music. Not a scoop nor a falsetto was left out. And oops, there go the hips - Lance was _really_ feeling this song.

He was just starting to get loud when Omar shuffled in, yawning and tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, which said _Gary & Sons Autobody, _right below an enormous grease stain that clearly hadn’t met a little thing called a stain stick.

Lance stopped singing halfway through his second “ _into you”_ and shut off the water.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Omar said through another, enormous yawn.

“Sorry man, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Omar waved a hand in the air. “Nah, been up since eight. You’re good.”

“Eight?”

“Migraine.”

“Ahh.” Lance immediately remembered watching Omar do like, six tequila shots the night before.

Yeah, he supposed a migraine wasn’t too out of the question.

Scrunching his nose, Omar took a look at the living area, cocking his head before looking at Lance. “Damn,” he said, almost sounding impressed. “We really had a party last night.”

Lance didn’t need to look around to know what Omar meant.

It was true, the place was kind of a shitshow.

Pillows strewn on the carpet, cable box sitting on top of the microwave (for some? reason??), red solo cups on _literally_ every surface except the counter next to the sink, where Lance was still cleaning.

And then, of course, there were the empty bottles with just a centimeter of sticky liquid clinging for dear life to the bottom of the glass, crunched up beer cans, and an overflowing trash can that was already starting to smell up the apartment with the stench of sticky, alcohol-coated solo cups, pizza crusts and Papa John’s garlic sauce.

Lance couldn’t blame Omar for making a face.

“I think I have some ibuprofen in my room if you need some, dude,” Lance offered.

But Omar shook his head. “‘S cool. This is my punishment for taking all those tequila shots.” His expression resembled that of a war veteran, recounting days long past on the front lines. Somber and way too serious for a nineteen-year-old college dude with a hangover and stained t-shirt.

“Okay…” Lance went back to washing his dishes. There was a mountain to get through, and he wasn’t gonna just _not_ finish his song before it was over.

Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Lance turned around and tapped the play button on his phone screen. Ariana returned, filling Lance with the desire to channel his inner stripper at nine in the morning.

Omar made another, far more disgusted face. “If I see you do a fucking booty drop before I’ve even tried to eat breakfast, I’m calling public safety,” he threatened.

There went his plans for the morning, Lance thought, looking forlornly at the phone currently blasting soft  “ _I’m so into you”_ s from the tiny speakers.

“I wasn’t… gonna?” he said.

He and Omar both knew he was absolutely gonna.

Omar “mhmm”ed and shuffled over to the fridge, digging around through the shelves until he found a big _something_ wrapped in tinfoil. He crinkled back the foil and, lo and behold, leftover pizza.

Lance’s stomach rumbled. He realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.

Finishing up with rinsing the last of the silverware, he set them in the drying rack and tossed the hand towel onto the counter. “I think I’m gonna head up to main campus,” he said as he picked up his phone from the sticky tabletop. He cringed and tried to wipe away some of the stickiness from his phone with one sleeve. “D’you remember what time the buses start running on Saturdays?”

“No idea,” Omar said helpfully.

Right. Omar had a car - he didn’t normally take the buses if he could help it. Lucky bastard.

Lance quickly checked his Bussit app. Nope, the buses didn’t run until 10 a.m. _Screw this shuttle system_ , Lance thought. Did he have granola bars? Yeah, there should be at least a few granola bars left in the pantry...

He shot Pidge and Hunk a quick text with the question of breakfast, then rifled through the pantry to check for the granola bars. God, he was _starving._

Found them.

Come ten o’clock, Lance was out the door before anyone else in the apartment had woken up. Fine. They could deal with the rest of the mess. So _not_ Lance’s problem.

Hunk was normally up by nine sharp on Saturdays to knock out most of his homework, but he normally didn’t head to the music building until after he’d eaten breakfast. He was quick to reply enthusiastically a few minutes after Lance sent his text.

Pidge was a little slower. Lance ended up waiting another twenty minutes before she finally got her coffee addicted ass out of bed at the mention of an Eddie’s run.

 

* * *

 

 

“So I met this girl,” Hunk said, the beginnings of a blush already on his cheeks. Lance was suddenly one hundred and fifty-two percent interested now. 

They had all since ordered their respective breakfast bagels and were in the process of chowing down at a booth table.

“Oh?” Lance said, casual. And by casual, that meant he was leaning across the table with his chin propped in his hand, already smirking. “A girl? This the one you went for pizza with last night or…?”

Pidge whipped her head around to stare at Hunk, glare accusatory. “ _What?”_ she asked. “And you didn’t tell _me_ about this?”

“Yeah… sorry Pidge,” Hunk looked like he was trying not to break into a grin. “She’s like, I dunno, she’s somethin’, you know?” Wow, talk about spilling the details.

“Is she a music major?” Lance and Pidge both asked at the same time. Hunk didn’t even bat an eye.

See, in a small-ish music school like Altea, the students were… for lack of a better word, a teensy bit incestuous when it came to dating.

Not like, dating within your own family - gross - but like, a lot of people dated within the music school, and it was less common to find someone with a significant other who was a non-music major. Which was also fine, of course, but there was just something about dating another music major that really helped with being able to relate to one another in a really weird, intrinsic way.

“Cello performance, yeah,” Hunk confirmed.

“This gal got a name?”

“...Shay.”

“Damn, she sounds great already,” Pidge teased.

Hunk couldn’t stop the blush that was quickly spreading over his entire face. “Shut up.”

“Omygod, your cheeks are _red,_ Hunk,” Lance said, laughing when his best friend only grinned and turned even redder. “It’s okay man, seriously!” He leaned across the table to clap his friend on the shoulder. “I’m really happy for you.” His voice betrayed nothing but the utmost sincerity. He was happy. He _was_ happy for his friend.

Hunk deserved the world, man. The world and more.

“So…” Lance said, waggling his eyebrows. Hunk knew that look. He braced himself. “When you say hi to her do you say ‘ _Hey girl’..._ or do you say, ‘why _cello_ there, beautiful _?’”_

Pidge groaned so loud, a few kids sitting four tables away turned around with eyebrows raised. Hunk almost snorted chocolate milk through his nose, he wasn’t over it.

In all honesty it wasn’t one of Lance’s better jokes, but fuck if it wasn’t funny for quarter after ten on a Saturday morning.

They were lucky to be in one of the little side cafes attached to the dining hall, where only a few students were hanging out and munching on the school’s infamous glazed donuts (extra crispy from being defrosted just a little too long, ayyy).

“You’re both weirdos,” Hunk said, shaking his head.

"Mmrbraith vuh weer, man," Pidge said through a huge bite of bacon and egg on an everything bagel.

“Huh?”

Swallowing the enormous bite of food, Pidge repeated, “Embrace the weird, man. It’s not gonna let up anytime soon and if I know Lance, it probably never will.”

“Hey!” Lance said. “Shut up, you guys love me.”

“Love you like a rash.”

“Oho _ho,”_ Lance grinned a shit-eating little grin. “So what you’re saying is I totally get under your ski-”

“Lance!” Hunk and Pidge said together. Lance held up his hands like a white flag.

“All _right,_ yeesh, a little lovin’ wouldn’t hurt, kiddos.” He knew they didn’t mean a thing by it. His friends loved him to death and that was a fact. “But this cello major,” he tried again, switching the focus back to Hunk, who gave a noncommittal shrug before returning to his bagel. “You like her?”

Chewing, Hunk put the last third of his bagel back on his plate, thoughtful. After a beat, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah I really do.”

“That’s awesome buddy!” Pidge said.

Lance agreed. “Now if we could just team together to find _me_ a girl - or guy…” Lance mused, steepling his fingers like Dumbledore before bringing up a hand to stroke at a nonexistent goatee.

Pidge snorted and took a swig from her gigantic coffee. “With that face?” she said from behind the paper cup, “Good luck with that.”

“~Sticks and stones, Piglet,” Lance sang back. He batted a hand at her coffee, but she held it out of the way before it could get snatched. Lance pouted. Pidge flipped him off with one hand and took a gulp of her (probably scalding) coffee with the other.

This was their thing, teasing each other about stupid stuff that neither of them could ever get offended over. True, Pidge despised nicknames - Lance’s favorite form of torture - but she gave as good as she got. And her burns were homemade, premium, top shelf, trademarked savagery.

Lance could respect that.

They continued like that for a little, finishing their bagels and enjoying the relative quiet of the side cafe.

Figures that the conversation would return to music at _some_ point.

“Omygod, I totally forgot,” Hunk said just as the conversation had begun to dull.  “I saw Shiro yesterday, heading into town just as Shay and I were leaving. He was with _Allura.”_

The speed at which Lance whipped his head around was probably enough to give him whiplash. If anything, he at least got a few _cricks_ in his neck for the trouble.

“ _What?”_ He yelped, almost knocking over Pidge’s coffee. Pidge practically _hissed_ at him, baring her teeth like a cat as she slid the almost-empty cup closer to her like it was her newborn child.

“Yeah,” Hunk said, wiping butter coated fingers on a napkin. “I think they might be ‘offish,’” he air quoted the last word, his idea of slang for “official,” frowning. “Or whatever they’re calling it these days.”

“Oh my god,” Lance said, at the same time Pidge said, “‘Bout fuckin time.”

With a sigh, Hunk took a moment to lean back in his seat, which was cushioned (hey, the perks of nabbing a booth) if a little bit worn and ripped. This whole dining hall could really use a little TLC. “I think he could really use a little more happiness in his life,” he murmured. “Allura’s amazing, and they clearly have some chemistry-”

“ _Some?”_ Lance scoffed. Hunk glared. Lance shut up.

“I just mean, I think this could be really awesome for him, but I wanted to let you guys know _now_ so that you didn’t make a big deal about it later.”

Pidge leaned over until she was all up in Lance’s personal space, “I think he’s talking about you,” she hissed in a stage whisper.

Lance scooted his chair away from her. “You don’t know that.”

Pidge gave Hunk a pointed look. Hunk nodded.

“Again, _not_ feelin’ the love.” Lance crossed his arms, moping but not one hundred percent meaning it.

“I agree with Hunk, though,” Pidge muttered through another (smaller) bite of her bagel. “Considering the amount of pressure Doc Sendak has him under with violin technique ‘n’ shit, a happy relationship - with someone who actually _gets_ it - would totally be a good thing for Shiro.”  
  
"Yeah, I hear Sendak is a real hardass." Lance frowned and dug into the gooey cinnamon bites from the front counter. Hunk was already tearing up his bacon egg and cheese on poppyseed.  
  
"Poor Shiro," Pidge muttered. "I feel like the guy is fifty percent sunshine and fifty percent stress."  
  
"True," Hunk and Lance said together.

Everyone in the music school knew Shiro. Hell, probably half of the university _outside_ of the music school knew Shiro. And uh, everyone who knew Shiro knew that he deserved literally the entire universe, and at least fifty naps. If anyone worked hard, it was him.

After about ten more minutes of just sitting their digesting their _heavenly_ Eddie’s bagels, the three came to a unanimous agreement that they’d better head to the music building.

The dining hall was just a five minute walk away from the music school.

“Can we _please_ take the elevator today?” Hunk asked when Lance started to make his way towards the main stairwell, once they got inside. “Please? I just ate, man, I’ll probably lose something if I try walking those stairs.”

Lance complied immediately.

“Sure thing! Elevator it is.”

The elevator was slow as hell, on account of whoever built it wanting to make sure none of the string instruments were damaged by pressure or whatever,  but Lance was feeling a little bit lazy today anyway. Sure. Elevator, why not.

The three of them shuffled into the elevator; Pidge with the dregs of her triple shot espresso in hand (even though she claimed to have gotten a full six hours of sleep) and Lance with his orange juice.  Hunk had already stowed away his extra chocolate milk to put in the second-floor fridge - the music school was also awesome because hey, it knew its students.

And considering most music students practically _lived_ in this godforsaken building…. Fridge.

Not very big, but it was handy to have around in case you decided to have an eight-hour day in the music building and didn’t feel like walking down to the dining hall for a bite.

Just as Lance hit buttons two and three, someone from around the corner called, “Hold the door!”

Hunk stuck out his foot, stopping the heavy doors just as they started to slide shut.

They all heard the sound of someone running down the hall. As they  came into view, Hunk brought his foot back and backed up to make some room.

Lance silently swore when he realized who it was.

Keith Kogane just about tripped into the elevator, panting. He had a heavy-looking backpack on - black, with accents of red around the edges - and he also held a large, legit-looking stack of music books in his arms. He wore red flannel today over a plain black v-neck, and his jeans were the same, ripped ones Lance had first seen him wearing the day they met in the library. Same rundown converse, too.

“Thanks,” Keith huffed, nodding to Hunk. Black hair fell in his eyes - eyes that Lance quickly looked away from when he realized that they were some weird shade of purplish-blueish something. He hated it. He hated it because… because damn him if those eyes weren’t gorgeous enough to kill someone via heart attack.

 _What the shit. What the fuck._ Lance pressed his lips together and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“No worries, man,” Hunk nodded back. Pidge flashed him a smile and a finger gun, and Keith made a face that might have been smiling, but also might’ve just been a grimace. Lance assumed it couldn’t have been a smile. He _never_ saw Keith smile. In fact, he’d never even _heard_ of Keith ever smiling.

Then Keith’s eyes fell on Lance.

Lance saw the noticeable change in his expression, the slight fall at the corners of his mouth.

Keith... clearly wasn’t happy to see Lance here, too.

Lance said nothing to him and pretended to check his phone for messages. He was such an idiot, he didn’t have any messages. He just didn’t wanna have to look at that stupid _mullet_ standing four feet away from him.   

He caught sight of Pidge giving Hunk a _look,_ before quickly looking back. He slapped on a neutral expression, like he didn't care _who_ was in the elevator with them. Nope, he didn't care one tiny bit.

His friends had clearly noticed something, but they weren’t saying anything. If anything, they looked like they knew something that Lance didn't, if Lance could interpret that glint in Pidge's eye. Pidge could read Lance like a book sometimes. So could Hunk, but at least he was nicer about it.

 _Thanks, guys,_ Lance thought bitterly. _Good to know I can always count on you two._

The thirty seconds it took for the elevator to get to the second floor were painfully, painfully silent. What, why was no one talking?

_Ding!_

“So um, see you later then, Lance?” Hunk asked, his eyes flicking between Lance and Keith who, unbeknownst to the two of them, had since managed to move to opposite ends of the elevator, looking away from each other.

Pidge stepped off after Hunk, which was when Lance realized that he - may the gods have mercy on him - would be alone in the rest of his journey to the third floor. Did he pretend he had to do something on the second floor and run out behind them?

Overthinking it made him realize he’d waited too long to make his next move.

The doors slid shut. The elevator started moving again.

Not even elevator music could have made this less awkward. And the school elevator didn’t play music.

“So.... how’s your rep coming along?” Keith muttered, side-eyeing Lance as he organized the books in his arms.

Lance scowled. “Um, my rep is going _great,_ thanks for asking. Better than yours, probably.”

Keith snorted. “Okay then.”

“That’s it?” Lance asked skeptically. “You’re not gonna argue?” He scoffed. “Dang, you’re even more boring than I thought.”

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Obviously.”

_Ding!_

Third floor. The bickering stopped immediately and they both hurried to step off the elevator, putting as much space between them as possible. Lance left in a huff and headed for 300Z, ready to be rid of Keith Kogane and his stupid, talented hands and his stupid mullet and stupid fucking _everything…_

He reached the end of the hall, which was when he finally noticed footsteps behind him.

“Um…”

He twirled around.

 _I just can’t catch a break today,_ Lance thought. He was already mourning his own death by sheer annoyance.

“You uh, weren’t going in 300Z were you?” Keith asked, looking innocent enough. Lance’s eyes narrowed. _Oh, hell no._

“Were _you_ going to go in 300Z?” he shot back. One of the straps on his backpack slipped, totally throwing off the intimidation vibes he was going for. Fixing the strap, he planted a hand on his hip, firm, leaning against the closed door of the practice room with a look that said,  _Try me_.

“I normally use 300Z,” Keith said, clearly trying to keep this un-confrontational. But then again, his natural, shall we say, resting _bitch face_ wasn’t helping him out too much. “I’ve been using that piano since last year. It's just a piano."

“You’ve been seeing _bae??”_ Lance’s eyes were huge and heartbroken. "Just a _PIANO?"_ One of his hands actually flew up to press over his heart.

Keith sputtered, looking from Lance to the door and back again. “Who the hell is _bae?”_ he asked, voice reaching an octave above what was normal.

“I’m getting this room,” Lance said, turning around.

Suddenly Keith was right next to him, shoulder pressed to shoulder. “Not if I get in there first,” he said, scrambling to get out his ID so that he could swipe in. “You don’t own the practice rooms!”

Lance made a small shove of his own with his shoulder. His ID was already in his hand, but Keith was closer to the little card swiper thingy next to the door. “Neither do you!” he snapped back.

For a minute, all they did was fight shoulder to shoulder, battling it out for the prime real estate that was 300Z and the baby grand piano inside. Finally, Lance knew he had him, shouldering Keith into the corner where wall met wall as he raised his ID to swipe.

“Keith!”

The two boys froze outside of 300Z, both turning their heads to look back at Aubrey, the piano major. She was smiling a huge, cheshire cat smile.

“Look at us, we’re wearing the same flannel!” she gushed, grinning as she pointed to her own shirt, which was certainly the same as Keith’s... except for the fact that it was a bright orange, with accents of lemon yellow. If it hadn’t been so _bright,_ it would have looked almost nice.

Her grin fell when she noticed Keith’s and Lance’s expressions, and the way the two of them were basically shoved shoulder to shoulder just outside of the practice room at the end of the hall.

By all accounts, it didn’t look good.

“Ahhh humm..” she made a big deal of clearing her throat, dramatic enough to be a voice major. “Everything okay over here?”

“Fine!” the two of them snapped at the same time. They blinked, looking at each other.

“Yeahhh I’ll just assume that’s a No,” she said with half a laugh. “I’ll uh... bug ya some other time then?”

“You are toootally okay, my dude - uh, girl,” Lance said, “The Lance-inator never turns down a lady in need.” He could practically feel the eye roll searing into the back of his head from Keith.

“ _Did_ you need something?” Keith asked, clearly straining to sound casual. He leaned for the door, knocking away Lance’s elbow in the process. Lance pouted, shoving back just a little.

Aubrey shook her head and backed up a step, still smiling. She was interesting, either super sunny and bubbly like today, or quiet and a little moody on others. “Nah it’s cool, I was sorta just roaming the halls to see if anyone wanted to come and listen to my rep, but some other time!” She shrugged.

Keith frowned. “I can-”

Aubrey waved it off. “Another time, Keith. I can tell you’re a little preoccupied. It’s all good!” She turned on her heel and started to walk away, giving a wave over her shoulder.

“Wait, Aubrey I can-” Keith called, but too late.

“~Another time!” Aubrey sang down the hall.

Steamed, Keith looked around to see the expression on Lance’s face.

Lance had since brought a hand up and was currently inspecting his cuticles. Another few seconds, and Aubrey was out of earshot.

Both of them bolted for the card swiper.

Lance got there first, swiping his card and practically throwing the door open. Keith was right behind him.

Both stopped dead when they were just a couple steps into the practice room.

“Sorry… this room’s taken.”

Rachael, another piano performance major, was sitting a little tense at the baby grand, eyes wide. The sound of the door slamming open was probably the cause of alarm. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, eyeliner looking incredible, and her bulky sweatshirt looked way too stylish for what it was. Perfectly manicured hands hovered over the piano keys.

How had they not noticed that someone was already in here?

“I am so sorry,” Lance said, clearing his throat. “ _Keith_ here,” he pointed to Keith, “made me do it.”

“Did n-”

“Shh, don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is. Rachael,” Lance said, sighing dramatically. Keith growled softly from behind, put out. “I was _trying_ to tell Keith that someone was already in here, but he wouldn’t listen. So you should totally be mad at _him._ ” He looked over his shoulder with a wily grin. “I’ll just leave you two to talk, mmkay? You don’t need another person crowding up your practice room.”

Wow, that was almost painful to say. Admitting that this practice room wasn’t just his? Ouch.

He silently apologized to Bae.

“Lance, it’s fine,” Rachael deadpanned, but Lance was already _tsk tsk_ ing at Keith and making the respective hand gesture. It was already a lost cause. He turned on his heel and strolled out, breezing past Keith with a finger gun. “Have fun finding a room, twinkle fingers.”

 _What_ had he just called him?

Too late to take it back now. 

Keith stared, standing there in the practice room doorway and Rachael still sitting at the piano, both of them confused. Lance couldn’t give less of a shit.

Whatever, if he had to take a visit to the side ho today (that was what he called the sort of OK baby grand in room 300H) then he would. As long as he got there before Keith, that was all that mattered.

He tried not to picture Keith sitting there in _his_ practice room, practicing the Brahms on _his_ piano.

He tried not to picture Keith playing piano in general - No, he wasn’t gonna think about the graceful fingers or rapid hands that could play anything from Prokofiev to Brahms to Bach, and he could play them all at their proper tempos. With the proper rhythms.

He tried not to think about what Coran told him earlier.

 _I don’t need his goddamn help,_ Lance thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EWbonj7f18) that's playing at the party.
> 
> Also - your comments and general feedback are really appreciated, I mean that. Please don't be afraid to leave a comment!


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